


Agitator

by JaqofSpades



Series: The Spin Cycle [2]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last week of summer in Neptune. Class war is about to erupt, the drug trade is booming, and Weevil and Veronica aren't friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agitator

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Dirty Laundry (http://archiveofourown.org/works/313425).  
> Part one was written for Porn Battle XIII to the prompts "alley" and "bikes".

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.

***

He's been hearing things, and he's trying not to care, but it's the fucking Colombians and he can't sleep nights worrying about her ending up dead in a ditch. Someone had caught her taking photographs of people coming and going from a drug house on Sandinas, and word was a few goons were out to teach her a lesson.

So he sets his boys to keep an eye on her, and instead of asking how fucking high, they ask why they should give a fuck about Echolls' whore. He loses it when Thumper says he'd happily smack up the bitch himself, and backhands him before he realises just how stupid that is. Thumper has never been as loyal as he should be, and this ain't gonna help. 

Hector shoots him a dark glare, and he and Thumper peel off into the night, bikes screaming. Later, Hector comes by his house and asks point blank why he's looking out for her skinny white ass - he doesn't say 'again', but it's implied. Weevil has never admitted he and Veronica had a thing, but Hector's known him a long time, and he's probably figured it out. So he doesn't lie and say it's not about her – he grasps for a half truth instead.

“Dog, you know it's bad for business if a white girl gets whacked in the barrio,” he says. “Besides, I wanna know what she's chasing … if she's got something on the Colombians ...” he stares at the wall, weighing the possibilities. All of a sudden, he really does want to know, and keeping Veronica safe might just be a side benefit. 

He follows her that night, and the next, hidden in a nasty alley just a few feet away from her car. Watching her, watching them. On the third night of surveillance, he sees another car, across the street and a few spaces back, and two scary looking motherfuckers. They won't be content to watch, for long. He calls up the boys, and tells them to roll through, as loud and as distracting as they can manage. Ten minutes later, the PCH comes roaring in, and under the cover of strobing headlights and revving engines, he drags her from the Le Baron and into the alley with him, pushing her toward the wall in back.

She opens her mouth to scream, and he clamps a hand over it. “Let's not tell the bad guys we're here, OK?” he hisses, and she stills against him.

The bad guys will probably come looking anyway, so he unbuckles his belt and drops his baggies and boxers to the ground. He rolls his eyes when she lets out a shocked gasp – she invented this undercover bullshit – and pushes her skirt up. “It's a cover, Mars. Don't get your panties in a twist,” he jokes, tugging her legs around his waist and pretending to thrust as he hears footsteps approaching the end of the alley.

“You feel so good, mama,” he moans theatrically, before switching to Spanish. “Joder. Dios. Si, mama, si chula, Si!” He's panting, and he's pretty sure it's convincing because let's face it - he's been fucking his hand half the night and this is far too close to the real thing. Her eyes are still angry but she has begun to move with him, and he suspects those strangled little noises are Veronica trying not to enjoy this too much. The tiny silken barrier between them is damp and slippery, and it would be so easy to just nudge it aside and slide home … his world is already beginning to blur when he hears a hoot of derisive laughter as the two goons stroll past, and reality slaps him back into place. Undercover. Pretend.

Her body's not pretending, though, and that'll keep him awake tonight. Bitch will probably go visit her boyfriend in the Neptune Grand, he reminds himself. Rid herself of the inconvenient lust she's worked up with the stupid cholo . Close her eyes and let Echolls fuck her hard against the wall.

He wants to say “you could have the real thing” but the pain is too fresh, so he slides his hand down and slicks several fingers in her wetness, and nudges her clit a few times. Just enough to make her jerk and cry out. To make it damn obvious she wants him. To bring her close and dump her there, right on the edge. 

He can feel cold eyes on his back, but he ignores them, and wonders how long he can convincingly fake an orgasm. Fancy silver-toed boots clink their way back into the street after long several long, torturous minutes, but they both know better than to move just yet. So he brings his soaked fingers up between them, and forces her to watch as he licks them clean, one insulting digit after another.

Veronica is vibrating. He hopes it's unfulfilled lust, but it's probably anger, though he has no doubt this girl is capable of both at once. She peeps over his shoulder to be sure they're gone, then punches him, her bony fist sinking deep into his gut. It helps kill his erection, at least, and he wonders what she needs to kill, hitting out like that. Her taser would have been more effective if she wanted to take him down.

“Sure they're gone?” he asks bitterly. “Things I do for you, Mars.” He pulls up his jeans, then zips as she stares at him with incredulous green eyes. Her mouth opens, but he can't bear to hear it, so he strides towards his bike, throwing a last salvo over his shoulder.

“Don't worry, I don't expect thanks. Just information. And for you to stay the fuck away from my side of town.” He doesn't even look back, kicking his bike into life and then roaring away, signalling the PCH to fall in behind with a wave of his hand.

*

For days, he imagines he can still taste her on his fingers. He tells himself it's a coincidence that the day he can no longer find her scent is the day he texts her, demanding a meeting.

She'll come, he figures, because she is still Veronica Mars, and she owes him.

He parks at the far end of Dog Beach, under the streetlamp his boys take care to keep carefully broken. Shadow is your friend, when you're brown, and he stays in the dark until her old car prowls up to the kerb, and slides in beside the drinks kiosk. She walks the rest of the way, and he watches her, looking for him. Maybe he should let her know where he's hiding, he thinks, but he doesn't touch his phone. He sees the moment she finds him, the way her eyes scan all the shadows, and come back to the place he is lurking.

“This is necessary, how?” she snaps when she draws close. “You couldn't just come over to my Dad's office? Or the house, like civilised people?” 

“Don't want anyone to see me talking to you,” he sneers. “Ain't safe to talk about this here - climb on.”

Her mouth is set in a mulish line, but she jumps when a car backfires further up the beach, reminding them the foreshore is far from deserted. She swears under her breath, then grabs the spare helmet and slides on behind him. You could stack a pile of books between them, he thinks viciously, and tries not to remember how having her behind him used to make his week. 

Now, she leans back, hands gripping the pillion behind her, careful not to touch him anywhere. It pisses him off so he stomps on the gas and ratchets the bike up past the speed limit. He hears her sharp gasp as they fly into the darkness, and smirks as her arms come about him, looping tightly. They're steel bands of nervous tension rather than the wandering seduction of times past, but it comes even quicker than he thought, that moment when she lays her head on his back and widens her thighs to plaster herself against him. Prickly, careful Veronica has no defence against this, the swooping sensation of taking a curve at high speed, the headlong rush into warm air and blackness, and the heat of them, as her body is thrown into alignment with his, and they move together, breathe together. Burn together.

It's not better than sex, Weevil knows. It is sex, and there's a reason he hasn't had anyone else on the back of his bike in months. She's killing him.

He doesn't want to stop, but they need to talk and they can't leave it all up to their bodies. They fly past the signpost for San Jacinto, and he starts to choke it back as the climb tips up towards the mountain. He pulls into a layby, and when he cuts the engine, the silence is deafening.

She lifts her head from his back, and he stiffens, knowing she is going to peel herself away. She sits close for a moment longer than he expects, though, unwrapping her arms to take off her helmet, but not sliding back.

“Can't even hear the ocean, up here,” she says, and he's not sure what she's saying, because she doesn't sound scared, or even angry. Almost … accepting. Even hopeful, and he should be fucking used to it by now, Veronica Mars doing the thing he least expects.

“Long way from Neptune,” he responds, trying to keep his voice even. Frankly, he'd rather get back to the conversation their bodies were having, or get onto the one where she tells him whatever it is she's uncovered back home, but … something's on her mind.

“It's good to leave it all behind,” she says, staring out towards the blackest part of the night, where the massive mountain would be. “This summer … it's been truly fucked up.”

He tenses, but tells himself to can it, because she didn't actually accuse him, just said things had been fucked up, and aleluya to that. 

“Yep.”

She turns to him and they hold each other's stare for the first time in weeks.

“I'm sorry about Felix.”

He grunts, but can't do more than that. She should be fucking sorry, because he had needed her, and she'd not even asked him what had happened before she'd chosen Echolls. 

“I'm sorry ...” her voice trails off this time, and he wonders what she's trying to say. Sorry you didn't mean anything to me? Sorry you were just a bit of fun and I've moved on?

He must have made a sound of disgust because her chin has come up and her jaw is set and this isn't gonna be pretty.

“Logan needed me. I didn't know … everything, but things just got worse and worse, and after that night … the things I said … we couldn't have gone back.” 

“I would have forgiven you. I needed you, V.” The words were out of his mouth before he could  
call them back, and his voice had fucking wobbled. Pussy, he castigated himself. Pinche idiota.

He could feel her gaze burning a hole in his chest, but he refused to look up, instead kicking at an imaginary rock with his motorcycle boot. 

“You had your family, your boys. Logan had no one. And you went after him, Weevil. No matter what happened out there on the bridge – you were the one who called up the troops, and rode out to the bridge, and someone ended up dead.” She sounded sorry, but she also sounded pissed, and he was glad, because he was angry too, now, and it helped to chase the ache away. 

“So, your boy sticks a knife in Felix and it's supposed to be my fault? Wasn't even Felix's knife, Veronica. I didn't pull a knife on Echolls before he kicked me in the head, and Felix's knife was still in his fucking pocket when they buried him.”

He can see her brain seizing that fact, turning it over and inspecting it from different angles. She doesn't say anything, but he knows what drives her, and he'd just given her one more thing to keep her awake in the middle of the night. He isn't asking for a favour so much as dangling a lure, and he can wait until Veronica decides to take the bait.

“So what have you got on Reyes' crew?”

She wrinkles her nose, and it'd be cute if it wasn't her classic avoidance tactic.

“Not much. They come, they go, they sell drugs.”

“Ooh. Shocker,” he says, laying the mockery on thick. “Since when is Mars Investigations interested in drug deals?”

She cuts her eyes at him and frowns, obviously trying to decide whether or not to confide in him. He waits, forcing boredom onto his face, not wanting to influence her either way. Not wanting to hope, because he knows he should stay well clear of her, stay out of her business. But he knows he can't, and he knows he won't, so he's not going to delude himself. He's got her back, whether she wants him there or not.

“We're looking for someone. A girl, our age. She was last seen coming out of that house on Sandinas. Her parents swear she doesn't do drugs, and from what I can find – 4H club, science prize, debating – they might even be right. But a reliable witness saw her go into the house, with two men, on June 29. She hasn't been seen since. ” 

“What's an 09er doing this side of town anyway? You're the only white girl I know who comes anywhere near Sandinas.” Hasn't seen her lately, he thinks, but fuck the past tense. 

“Not an 09er, chico. Her parents are Chinese, own the fruit market on the edge of town? Amy Xu. They sent her to Pan rather than Neptune because they thought she'd have a better chance of fitting in there.”

“True that. Why isn't Lamb handling this?”

“Jurisdiction, officially. County line ends two blocks from her house, no formal sighting of her in town, just junkies too high to bother taking a statement from … you know the drill. ”

“Poor girl, lost in the barrio, boo hoo?”

“And go see the wizard, my friend.”

Ten minutes with her, and his anger had been slipping away, replaced by the familiar buzz of matching wits with Veronica Mars. But …

“I'm not your friend.”

She looked gutted, and yeah, it was the first time he'd said it, but she had to know. They'd been fooling themselves all last year, but the two of them never could have been friends, no matter how many favours they exchanged. No matter how good she felt behind him, or underneath him – he was barrio, and Veronica Mars? She would end up high on the hill, even if she'd hadn't been born there. They weren't allowed to be friends, not in Neptune.

“Figure of speech, vato.” Her voice stung like ice, but he could hear the hurt underneath, and even if he hadn't, he would have known it was there. They were the same in this, striking out, biting, before you could get bit.

“Veronica!” and her name shook with everything he couldn't say, everything that was better left alone, and kept inside. So he took that step, and yanked her towards him, and tried to say all those things with his tongue, and his teeth, and his frustration.

She bites down hard on his lip, and the hurt of it is so fucking magnificent he groans, and pushes his hand inside her shirt to pluck at her nipple. And maybe he twists too hard, but she bucks her hips into his and begins to pant into his mouth. He can't help but fucking laugh – so not surprised she likes the pain – and she curses at him before plunging her tongue inside his mouth in a fury. They duel, but the wet slide of their tongues together is too much, too electric to hold on to the anger, and suddenly, all that's left is his need to taste her, soothe her, and feel her heart thumping under his hand. Their battle turns sensuous and slow, and then it dissolves again into sheer heat and want, and she's babbling, apologies and explanations and then, the last thing he wants to hear. 

He pushes her away, and if his hands are too gentle on her shoulders, it's only 'cause his abuela had raised him right. Hands her the spare helmet, and throws himself back on the bike, refusing to look into her face. He doesn't know this girl that well. Doesn't know why she's shaking behind him, or have any idea of what she's feeling.

He concentrates on the white line all the way back into Neptune, refusing to think of green eyes, huge with arousal in the half light, and the way her lips fluttered over his throat with a puff of sound he knew was his name. Totally fucking forgetting how he'd thrust into her, rock hard inside his jeans, and she'd tipped her pelvis to meet him, once, twice, and that was all it had taken before she'd begun to shudder in his arms, blurting out that she'd missed him, and she needed him, and he was the one, not …

And he couldn't hear that name, couldn't, without losing it, without giving in to the rage lurking inside of him. And what will hurt the most, later, is that Echolls had won again, without even taking the field. 

*

The next time he sees her is at school. He's got his back to her, but the look on Hector's face is the only warning he needs. He thinks of all the things he hates about her before he turns to watch her walk by (because he's not convincing anyone he doesn't like to watch her walk.). He'd been aiming for “who the fuck are you?” but she looks right through him and all he can think is, hell no. She can hate him, but she's sure as fuck not allowed to ignore him, so he thinks of all the things they've done together, all the sweet places he found with his tongue, and how her gasps turned into frantic little sobs when he made her beg.

And it turns out Veronica Mars can still read him, because he sees the blush climbing her neck as she stalks by, and he can't help the smile that creeps across his face as he turns back to his friends.

“What you thinkin' about, dog?” Thumper asks suspiciously, and he shrugs, unable to put it into words. Hector saves him though: “Well, I know what I'm thinking! Girl's still hot, even when she's mad!” and he can't help but nod and laugh, because, damn, it's true. And he even lets them riff on the shape of her ass and what she should be doing with that sexy mouth and doesn't call them on it, even when Hector starts looking uncomfortable. He just shrugs, and smirks, and tells himself to harden the fuck up because she made her choice.

Later, he's trying not to look at her in bio, and all her can see is the hard line of her mouth as she stomped past him. It's never been like that before. No secret amusement, no sly tease, no soft curves hinting that if only he'd behave, he was in with a chance. He wonders exactly when it was he blew it – on the hill, when he walked away? In the alley, when he forced her to acknowledge their physical connection? The Sac n Pac, when his hatred of Echolls had exploded into anger at her? Or was it earlier? Had he lost his chance with her the minute he'd touched his lips to her face, followed her down onto his bed, and shown her something other than the badass motherfucker?

It paralyses him, that thought. He can't move his eyes away from the perfect fall of her hair, blonder than ever, no longer choppy and rebellious. She's changing again, and maybe he did it, he thinks. Maybe he drove her back to safe, and familiar.

The gossip hits him as he follows her down the hall after class.

“Veronica Mars is such a slut!'

“Straight from Logan Echolls …”

“Who'd dump Logan?” 

“Apparently, Logan over the summer, but now ...”

He can feel the smirk stretching his lips, threatening to turn into a grin. He won't let it, but the triumph is swelling in his chest anyway, even as he tells himself its just gossip, and it doesn't mean anything, because he hasn't seen her yet. Hasn't talked to her, hasn't sorted a goddamn thing. 

He usually ignores the gossip, but today, he tries to catalogue every conversation, to build a truth he can work with.

He's pulling his shabby, third-hand math book out of his locker when he hears the other name.

“Duncan Kane!”

“How does a bitch like her get a guy like him? I can't believe it!”

“Veronica Mars and Duncan Kane. Back together! For realz!”

His vision freezes, and all he can see is the tattered book in front of him, the coffee stains and the ripped, peeling cover. 

Shabby, he thinks. Tawdry. That's all they'd ever be. A random almost-fuck in a layby in the dark before she heads back to the 09 and the rich white boys that she lets own her.

And he crunches his forehead down into the metal of the locker above him, and tears the book in two, flinging it backwards in a rain of loose pages that carpet the hall. Third period on the first day of school isn't so bad, he tells himself. He's easin' back into it. He has business to see to, and the day's too good to waste most of it inside.

Not having to see Veronica Mars cozying up to Duncan Kane at lunch is just a side benefit. 

*

He manages to get through most of the week before he finally figures out they've only got one class together this year – if homeroom can be called a class. He tries to tell himself that he's glad, because seeing her every day would make it harder to stay mad at her. Homeroom is easy to skip and he's never been great at making the first class of the day anyway, so he should be able to go entire weeks without running into her. 

He tells himself it's Felix who's missing, Felix who has left a gaping hole in his life, but he catches himself in the lie when Cervando gets himself in trouble, and he dials her number without even thinking. “Blondie” flashes up on the screen – Felix's idea of a joke – but it's a sharp reminder that this is PCH business, and the boys wouldn't want her anywhere near it. 

Two days later, he's following the bus home from Shark Field when it stops for gas, and he steers in after it. He parks around the corner, waits a little, and when she appears, curses his fucking luck. Because he doesn't need her getting caught up in this, doesn't want her anywhere near the Fitzpatricks, or his boys. Doesn't need her sticking her nose in.

But the hurt twists inside him, and the scowl on her face is daring him to say something. He knows he should leave it alone, but all he can think is when the fuck is it supposed to be his turn?

“So did you like your taste? Your little year of living dangerously? Did you get your fill? As soon as they'll have you back, you go running to the 09ers – and as a little bonus, you give it up to the richest boys in school.”

“Bet their sheets are clean,” he says, and never once thinks of chocolate on white sheets (chocolate staining her mouth, and filling the cavern of her bellybutton. Chocolate dribbling down, between her legs, and the way it had tasted as her back bowed off the bed in a silent scream). He doesn't get to think of her that way, so he bites off a curse, and rides off, leaving her stranded.

He goes back.

They don't talk because he's not admitting anything, or even thinking about it. It's just currency, one more favour owed, and that's all that's between them now. That's all there is ever gonna be, he tells himself as they barrel down the PCH, her breath hot against his neck and their bodies already singing to each other.

He's wonders what the fuck is going on in her head as they sweep around the bend, and his first thought is the sea's on fire. Then he sees the limo, doors open and people milling about, and hears the screams. And then they're staring out past the guardrail, and the debris swirling at the bottom of the cliff, and he hates himself for thinking it, he really does, because Cervando was one of his, and deserves better.

But Veronica Mars is alive, and he's thankful. Even if she has climbed off the bike, and twisted out of his arms. Even if she is clinging to Duncan fucking Kane, he's thankful, and doesn't that say it all.


End file.
